Song of the Soul
by Samalander
Summary: Harry has an extremely unsettling hallucination after receiving a batch of cookies by owl post. He's rescued from danger by Lupin, Alastor Moody and-- Professor Moody's son?


Mandatory Author's Note:  Obviously "Harry Potter and the Hallucinogenic Cookies" isn't the real title, but for now I can't think of anything really cool. I'll change it up as soon as I can think of something. Anyway, claimer: I own Harry Potter, I am Warner Brothers (both of them), I am JK Rowling and Harry dies at the end of the seventh book, in case you wanted to know. Questions and comments are welcomed and can be left in reviews or at my email; flames, as mentioned in earlier fanfics, will be printed out and masturbated to. I already have a beta, thanks, but the Samalander loves fanart, yes she does. Visit her website. (I'd encourage reviewing here, but it seems to have fallen out of style; I'll settle for a request for constructive criticism, canon-picking, and britpicking.)

**Harry Potter and the Hallucinogenic Cookies**

**(working title ;) )**

**_Chapter One: The Sirens' Song_**

Harry stared suspiciously at the ragged-looking tawny owl that had brought his latest package. It stared back a moment longer, then hooted balefully and flapped back out his open window without even stopping to drink. 

            The owl's package, which was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with frayed sting, was addressed to _Harry J. Potter, Number 4 Privet drive, Little Whinging, Surrey. _The card that had come with it read simply, "Happy Birthday Harry." Harry turned the unopened package over in his hands; it was medium sized and rather light, and rattled when he shook it. He wasn't _afraid _to open it-- after going so many years without any birthday presents at all, it was a welcome sight, even if his birthday _had _been a week ago-- but with everything that had already happened that year, he thought that caution would be best. He took out his wand, then used a pair of scissors to cut the string on the package. Keeping his wand pointed at the package, he tore off the paper with one hand, thinking to himself that this must be the way Mad-Eye Moody opened his mail.

            The paper fell away to reveal a plain brown cardboard box, inside of which were a dozen shortbread cookies. There was no further message, no indication of whom it might be from. The cookies looked and smelled all right, and the mysterious package was already safer than the basket of eggs Hagrid had sent him, which had hatched into slimy many-legged creatures that Harry had shut in his closet. Picking up one of the cookies, Harry inspected it, debating, He'd been in the papers quite often in the past year; it wasn't entirely impossible that some distant admirer had send him something a little late for his birthday. In fact, yes, that's probably what it was. Harry bit into the cookie and found it buttery and soft. Taking the box, he climbed back into bed to continue reading _A Hundred and One Jinxes and Hexes._

            At around two in the morning, when Harry had already eaten half the cookies and was thinking about going to bed, an odd sound came through his open window. The sound faded in and out, growing steadily louder, and he realized that it was music-- someone was playing a violin out in the street. Shoving his glasses onto his face, Harry stumbled to his window and leaned out. He couldn't see the street from where he was, but he could hear the music more clearly: it was a winding gypsy tune, played by a very talented violinist. 

            Harry cast a worried glance at his door, but neither the elder Dursleys nor his cousin had stirred. He knew he'd be in a lot of trouble if he was caught tromping around in the street in the middle of the night, but Harry wanted, _needed _to see who was playing in the street; the music had filled his head and was ringing loudly in his ears, the strong, pulsing beat matching the beat of his heart, calling him. He opened his door and listened for a moment to make the sure the Dursleys were still asleep, then hurried out into the hall and down the stairs without even bothering to put his shoes on or pull on a coat over his pajamas.

            As he wove his way around the furniture in the darkened living room, he could see a golden light shining through the draperies over the front window. The violinist had quickened the pace of his music to match the beat of Harry's pounding heart. Harry's fingers shook as he undid the lock on the front door. He could hear someone singing along with the music in a twisting foreign tongue, a high, soft voice that seemed to fill Harry's heart to bursting and sent pleasant tingles over his skin.

            He flung the front door open onto a scene so out of place on Privet drive that Harry almost couldn't believe it was there: out in the street was a wide circle of torches mounted on tall staffs-- the source of the golden light. In the circle were dancers-- at least six, though it was hard to tell-- turning and whirling in time to the music. They were all dressed in blue and white silk, the tallest and handsomest of them in a sky blue tunic with gold accents that flashed in the light as he danced. Outside of the circle, almost hidden in the flickering shadows, was the violinist, his eyes closed, body swaying to the tune of the music. 

            Harry stared, some small part of his mind wondering why no one else had heard the music and come out to watch. Those thoughts disappeared, however, as a curious feeling came over him: he felt suddenly calm, and very aware of his body. The street was cool under his bare feet; a warm summer breeze ruffled his hair while the heat from the torches baked his face. He could see sweat beading on the skins of the dancers and the long, thick eyelashes against the lighter skin of their leader. Harry watched the leader's sinuous movements, transfixed. That man seemed to be everyone that Harry had lost and missed dearly: Sirius, his father-- even Cedric.Glossy black hair that was almost as unruly as Harry's was pulled back into a loose ponytail. He saw Harry watching him and danced near, then stopped and turned to face him, his body relaxed, silks hanging in loose folds around his legs.

            Harry gaped up at him. The dancer was tall and slender, smiling down at him benevolently. It took Harry a moment to realize that the dancer was holding one hand out towards him, beckoning. Harry swallowed. "Um," he said uncertainly.

            The violinist had stopped playing and was cradling his instrument in his arms like an infant, watching them. The other dancers were clustered together, whispering, and when they saw Harry looking at them they burst into giggles and hid their faces behind long sleeves of silk. 

            "Come dance with us," the tall dancer said, and Harry felt that voice fill his mind and his heart like the violinist's music had. He looked up into the dancer's eyes, gray-green and kind, inviting. Harry lifted a hand without looking away from those eyes, and felt the dancer's hand close around it. He stepped forward as the dancer stepped back, leading him into the circle, and the violinist began his music again.

            The light from the torches twisted and warped as he came nearer, and the other dancers' movements were a blur of blue and white silk. The colors of the night-- blue and white, orange and purple and green and brown-- were melting and running together, swirling into themselves and into a white, blinding light.

            The final light.

            The light of death.

            "_STUPEFY!!"_

The tall dancer staggered back, his face twisting grotesquely. The other dancers, once small and childlike, now more resembled goblins as they drew around their leader, shrieking. Harry staggered back, his glasses falling askew, and someone put a hand on his shoulder. He twisted around and looked up, and his mouth fell open. "P-Professor Lupin?"

            "Get back, Harry," Lupin said, keeping his wand pointed at the dancers, who no longer seemed beautiful or graceful at all. The torches had gone, and the scene was lit only by the garish yellow light of the streetlamps. 

            The dancers were being driven back by Mad-Eye Moody and a young blonde boy that Harry didn't recognize; the tall dancer, whom Harry had thought so handsome and kind-looking, had transformed into something black and ugly, with scales and bulging red eyes. He had his arms spread on either side of him, trying to shield the smaller dancers from Moody's hexes. Behind them all was the violinist, the only one who had not changed. His long black hair was hanging in front of his face, and his only concern seemed to be to protect his instrument. Moody shot another Stunning spell, and one of the smaller dancers went down. His companions shrieked in anger, a sound like nails on a chalkboard; then, with a crack like a whip, all of them were gone-- Dissapparated.

            Silence descended on the scene, broken only by Harry's ragged breathing.

            After a long pause, Moody lowered his wand and turned towards Harry and Lupin. "All right?" he rasped.

            "Are you hurt, Harry?" Lupin asked, startling Harry out of a trance. 

            Shoving his glasses back into place, Harry let out a kind of dry croak, then swallowed and said, "I... d-don't think so." He stared at the place where the dancers had been, then noticed that there was pink light along the horizon: the sun was already rising. "What--" Harry began, dumbfounded. "How long have I been out here? It was two when I left the house--"

            "Let's get back," Moody said to Lupin, putting a hand on the young blonde boy's shoulder. 

            Lupin nodded. He turned to Harry. "We're taking you back to Dumbledore. Salathiel, keep watch while I get the Portkey. Let's hope no one's awake at this hour."

            "What? But I haven't packed--" Harry began, but Moody cut him off.

            "No time for that, we'll come back for it later." His magic eye darted back and forth across the street and over the painfully neat shrubbery in front of the houses. "We should have taken you back earlier, what they were thinking when they put Mundungus back on the job--"

            "I can't even get _dressed?"_ Harry said incredulously.

            Moody shook his head, looking down at him with his normal eye while his magic eye kept watch through the back of his head. "Not safe in there, Harry, not if those things got through. I've been telling Dumbledore all along not to leave you here, that the only safe place is under watch of a guard, but he kept insisting that as long as you didn't _leave _the house... Well, they found a way around that, didn't they?"

            "What _were--_" Harry started to ask, but was interrupted by Lupin returning with a cracked flower pot half-full of dirt.

            "I've sent the signal to Dumbledore," Lupin said. "Now, everyone put a hand on the pot-- that's it. Any second now--"

            Harry looked over at the blonde boy and had only just begun to wonder who he was when he felt a jerk behind his navel, and was transported to the dank and familiar living room of number twelve, Grimwald place.

((I can't remember the name of the street Sirius' house was on, but Grimwald will have to do until I can get book five back or ask someone _o ))


End file.
